Wessington Springs herald. (Wessington Springs, Aurora County, Dakota [S.D.]) 1883-1891, 1887-03-04

as to her past history? Per Bacco' my
friend, she is the NEUTRALITY-SUSPICIOUS.
Pompone, whatever her pretext may be
for this disguise Us the Contessa di San
Siviglione."
It was the hour when l knew the Contessa
was at home, for it was toe early for the
daily drive or reception and so I. who had
all the privileges of friendship, went
directly from the Marchesso to her lodg-
ings. She was with me in a moment, and
as she came forward and took my extended
hand 1 noticed with a sort of CONSERVATION,
portrait 1 had one seen of
the world famous singer, Pompone.
1t is true tho difference in the
coloring of hair, eyes, and COM
plexion was very marked, but the general
contour of the face was the same, and the
expression of the eyes, the frightened,
pleading, sorrowful look, recalled to me q
description 1 had once heard OF Pompone's
appearance rs Marguerite in Faust" for
I had never seen or heard the singer N.Y.
self. To-day, as we stood for a moment
hand in hand, a sudden impulse made me
say: "Why is it. Contessa, that you who
are so fond Of music and such MI appre-
ciative critic of good singing, refuse to turn
nightingale yourself? Accepting the story
l have heard of you to-day as fact, you are
able to rival The sweetest nightingale that
ever existed. Will you sing to me, signora?
not as a confirmation of any 1umor, but
as a proof of the friendship you have
graciously given me and that I most humbly
accept, for Pompone's friendship is far
dearer to me than ever Pompone's music"
Saying this, I opened the piano and
stepped forward to repeat my request, but
when my eyes fell upon her face 1 stood
immovable. She was leaning against the
u e-colored curtain that draped the deep,
broad window of the room; her face was
livid, her eyes distended in perfect agony,
while drops of sweat stood bead like upon
her forehead.
Good heavens! Signora. are you ill.," I
exclaimed, starting forward aud hastily
clutching the bell rope to summon her
maid. With q gesture she stayed my
hand, and in O few moments, recovering
somewhat her natural appearance, though
her CHASTITY pallor did not disappear, she
sank into a chair, and with an effort re-
sumed her usual smile and said in the pc
c%uliarly low and gentle voice whose
vibrating sweetness had been SO often re-
marked: "What was it you said to me, my
friend, that you nearly upset my nerves?"
"They Say you are Pompone."
"Truly, that is enough to upset nerves
stronger than mine, for surely you know
that Pompone died months ago?"
"The Marchesso di Dedio tells me the
report of her death was false"
"The Marchesso does not know, perhaps.
that Pompone died of smallpox and died
neglected, alone, in horrible agony, her
face disfgured beyond recognition, her
beauty and her music alike buried in the
common trench where her rude coffin was
thrown! Oh, sir, l do not need the burial
certificate to believe that Pompone is dead"
The Contessa's voice grew lower and lower,
dying away in q horror stricken whisper.
and as her wonderful eyes fastened them
| oClNSS uDOA AO / 0AuAoC1Co uNOluIluIllN
as n shudders in the presence of death.
"You were her friend, then, Signora?"
"Her friend?-yes." There was a long
pause, and finally she answered with all
her wonted composare: ga friend of music
must be a friend of musicians, and music is
my passion"
"a passion that has not always confined
itself TO admiration of others. l hope, Con-
~tessa?"
II have not sung in a long, long while, "
she replied, heavily, "and even to oblige
my English friend ! cannot do SO now. Do
1 not please you without the gift of song?
Must oil you pictures sing and all your
angels talk?" she asked, with sudden pas
sion in her tone.
II know of one who talks to me but little
and refuses to sing to me at all, and who is
yet al angel for whom I am willing to
sacrifice my life," l exclaimed, unable to
resist au avowal of the feelings which the
closeness of the mystery wrapped about
her served only to intensity. The color
deepened in her pale cheek for a moment
but she neither looked at me nor spoke to
me.
you once told me that you are named
Angela. 1t was a name that was rightly
given you-a name that my heart rs we'll
as my lips calls you, for Angela I love you
as man never loved woman before. Angela,
my Angela, will you be my wife,"
Her face was turned away from ME, but
her jewelled, white hand lay in mine, and
when 1 raised it to my lips, she said: "Mr.
Fisher. are you sure that you love me-you,
the cold-hearted Englishman?"
SHORE than my life" l replied.
She looked up at ne and a great CLEAN
of love mingled with the sorrowful light
in her eyes as she answered in sudden and
beautiful f%rankness, 81 accept your love
and l offer you mine in return. 1t is yours
alone, and has been yours since the even
ing your eyes spoke to mine in the corridor
of the opera-house. Do you remember it?
Is it quite right for me to recall it to you?"
els it right? 1t is heavenly. Don't you
see how happy you make me-? Don't you
know it is an ecstasy for me to believeth at
our hearts beat to each other before I stood
near you, before I heard your voice, when
va Ennv each ofbor ONLY, tb,,,,L :.